


Presumption of Friendship

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Banter, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:33:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18744721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: After Keladry of Mindelan's probation is finished, Jon and Alanna bury the hatchet.





	Presumption of Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "bury the hatchet" Malorie's Peak Prompt at Goldenlake.

Presumption of Friendship

Alanna didn’t glance away from brushing Darkmoon to see who approached her from behind in the royal stables, but Jon knew that she would sense it was him. She had always had an uncanny, cat-like ability to identify him as he neared. He didn’t understand what it was that gave him away–his footsteps or a special scent that perpetually clung only to him–even though he had asked her once, moonbeams spinning silver into the flaming red sun of her hair when they were not merely friends but lovers, how she always knew it was him who approached. “It’s just you,” she had replied with a slight, secret smile that had answered nothing and everything as she, forever cold, had curled up to him for warmth. 

“We’ve stableboys to do that, you know,” Jon called out to her now as he reached the stall. There was no title, no formality in his teasing greeting. He was aware that there was a presumption of friendship in that–a presumption that she would forgive him without him having to ask as she always had once her temper had cooled, that she would speak to him, and that she would want to pick up the thread of their relationship where they had dropped it months ago when Jon had agreed to Lord Wyldon’s proposal of probation for Keladry of Mindelan. 

“I know, but it’s good for a woman of my advanced years to get some exercise to keep herself limber.” Alanna’s amethyst eyes twinkled at him, and it was as if she had never stormed out of the meeting with him and Wyldon. As if she had never–according to Gary, who had tried to entreat with her before she had swept out of Corus in a rage and returned with hands held up in a hopeless declaration that she had refused to be reasonable–believed that he had betrayed her and everything she had ever sought to achieve in her life. As if he hadn’t been infuriated by her sense of betrayal–by her inability to glimpse the pattern of his strategy, the grand tapestry he was weaving with the different colored threads of lives, motivations, and ambitions: hers, Wyldon of Cavall’s, Keladry of Mindelan’s, and even his own. He had been angry as a wounded animal that she couldn’t take a step back to see the larger art that he was creating as a king who could understand what drove people more deeply than they did themselves. He had known then that he would have to wait until both their tempers had cooled, because even passions as hot as his and Alanna’s eventually burned out, allowing new growth in their friendship just as plants eventually sprouted from the ashes of soil scorched by forest fire. 

“Your advanced years?” Jon stepped forward to stroke Darkmoon’s black mane. Except for the darkness of his mane and tail, Darkmoon could have been mistaken for Moonlight, the proud mare who had been his grandam. The fact that Moonlight, whom he had paid for with a sapphire ring behind Alanna’s back when he had thought she was a boy, was dead and buried like a hatchet in the ground was an uncomfortable reminder of how much time had passed in his own life. “You’d better not be calling yourself old, because that would make me...” 

“Ancient and crumbling as the ruins of the Old Ones,” Alanna chirped, watching Darkmoon nuzzle at Jon’s pocket. 

“I may be old, but I’m not ancient and crumbling.” Jon surrendered the apple hidden in his pocket to Darkmoon, who crunched at it contentedly. 

“True.” Alanna gave a lopsided grin at the sight of him spoiling her horse. “I only see a dozen gray hairs on your head.” 

“I’ll have you know there isn’t a single gray hair on my head–I check in the mirror every morning.” Jon chuckled as Darkmoon nudged at his pocket in search of the sugar cubes he had concealed there. 

“Did you bring treats to charm me as you did my horse?” Alanna arched an eyebrow. 

“Now that you mention it”–Jon dipped a languid hand into his pocket–“I did bring sugar cubes to sweeten you.” 

“Give them to Darkmoon.” Alanna snorted, sounding rather like a horse herself, but her permission proved unnecessary for Darkmoon’s tickling tongue had already stretched out to lick the sugar cubes from Jon’s extended palm. “Nothing could sweeten me.” 

Silence settled between them, echoing in the stall as Darkmoon finished the treats Jon had slipped him. At last Alanna spoke abruptly. “Lord Wyldon finally decided to do the honorable and fair thing, allowing Keladry of Mindelan to continue to train as a page now that her probation is done.” 

“He did.” Jon knew that it was the news of that–passed along backcountry roads and whispered in remote inns–that had brought Alanna back to Corus. 

“You must have known from the time you agreed to Keladry of Mindelan’s probation that this would happen.” Alanna’s gaze fixed on his, and he saw no apology there–she would never apologize to him anymore than he would to her–but he did detect the hint of forgiveness. “That’s why you agreed to her probation.” 

“I didn’t know.” Jon couldn’t claim to know what he had only presumed about Lord Wyldon’s honor, about Keladry of Mindelan’s ability as a daughter of a diplomat reared in the Yamani Islands to keep calm in the face of Lord Wyldon’s hostility, and about Alanna’s willingness to forgive him. “I only guessed and hoped as I guessed and hoped that you would forgive me.” 

“Very risky.” Alanna shook her head. “Relying on two people as stubborn as Lord Wyldon and me to come around.” 

“Not as risky as storming out on your king.” Jon rebuttal came quick as ever to his lips, and he was pleased that they hadn’t lost the rhythm of retorts in their friendship despite their long separation. 

“Not my king,” countered Alanna in a softer tone that imparted affection to her next words. “My best friend, and since you are my best friend, I suppose I’ll have to bury the hatchet instead of killing you with it.” 

Jon felt his throat constrict at the idea that–despite all the strain his presumption had placed on their friendship–she still considered him her best friend and cleared it. “Only you would say that to your best friend.”


End file.
